


Four Times Michael Crawls into James' Bed (And One Time James Crawls into Michael's)

by coffeejunkii



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeejunkii/pseuds/coffeejunkii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A portrait of a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Michael Crawls into James' Bed (And One Time James Crawls into Michael's)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta and britpicker, nursedarry, who also patiently answered a bazillion medical questions. Thank you also to rurounihime for her betaing.
> 
> This is a prequel to my other McFassy fic, _A Measure of Peace_ , but it's not necessary to have read that in order to understand this story.

1.

A persistent knocking rouses James from sleep. Glimpses of a dream linger at the edge of his consciousness; he was running through wet sand without gaining ground.

The knocking gets louder. James stumbles out of bed and wobbles down the short, narrow path from the back of his caravan to the door near the front. It's still dark out, but that doesn't mean much considering that the sun only rises at half seven in Georgia this time of year. Did he miss a note about an earlier start time?

He opens the door and is pushed aside, but the brush of a worn grey T-shirt against his arm and a bump to his hip is enough to tell him it's Michael.

"I thought you'd let me freeze to death out there. How deeply do you sleep? Fuck, at least your heating's working."

James blinks. His brain isn't at full capacity yet and is still stuck on Michael showing up in his caravan in the middle of the night, never mind that bit about his heating. "What—what're you doing here?"

Michael's pulling his T-shirt over his head. "Heating in my caravan's broken. It's maybe five degrees in there. Couldn't fall asleep and figured you wouldn't mind."

"Yeah, it's, uhh, fine." James' rubs at his eyes. The next thing he sees is Michael's bare arse disappearing underneath the covers. Interesting. Does Michael always sleep naked, then? James previously put that down to the fact that they usually ended up sharing a bed after messing about, but maybe it's a regular thing.

"Coming?" Michael asks.

James slides into bed next to him. As Michael curls around him, James has to admit that this is rather nice. They've been on the island for four days now, and the last two nights, principal crew and cast stayed in caravans near the beach rather than making the trek back to the hotel each day. Such close quarters means more attention, and neither Michael nor himself want the entire set to gossip about—well, about whatever it is they have going on. There's been heated snogging or a quick handjob at the end of the day, but then they part for the night.

"I thought it was always warm here," Michael mumbles against James' neck. "Such a lie."

"Cold snap."

"Hmm."

"Were you outside for long?" Michael's knees feel rather cold, and his feet, tucked between James' calves, are proverbial blocks of ice.

"Long enough. Didn't feel like shouting and waking up everyone."

"You could've rung me and told me you wanted to come over."

Michael's arm wraps further around James to pull him closer. "Because you don't always put your mobile on silent at night."

"Fair enough."

A soft kiss to James' nape and a muttered _good night_ end their conversation. James feels Michael relax against him, the kind of heaviness that comes with the onset of sleep, and his breathing slows and evens, but he can't follow suit.

James' brain is annoyingly alert and his thoughts circle to the scenes they've planned for tomorrow, including the one in which Charles is shot and Erik pleads with him to stay by his side. James has been dreading those scenes ever since he first read the script. He knows that Michael will support him one hundred percent, will give him the necessary emotions to play off of, but that's part of the reason why James dreads the way that scene ends. He knows it's stupid to think about character bleed and he's got enough experience to disentangle himself from his role at the end of the day (and so does Michael), but there's this niggling thought in James' mind nevertheless that suggests that at the end of filming, he and Michael might go their separate ways. It should be far too early in their relationship for James to even think beyond the here and now, but he already knows that he doesn't want to walk away after they wrap in December.

He turns onto his back and Michael follows, settling against his side. This is fine for two minutes, but James' thoughts won't quiet and he feels restless and too confined. He sits up. Michael lets out a disgruntled noise and James reaches back to rest his hand on Michael's side in apology. But it's too late—Michael's shifting with purpose behind him, evidently back to being fully awake again.

James sighs. "Sorry. Go back to sleep." A hand climbs up his back, rubbing in a wide arc. "I'm all right. Just—thinking about tomorrow."

"It's too early to think about that."

It's not fair to keep Michael from sleep when they have a grueling day ahead. James pushes back the covers and is about to get up when Michael holds him back.

James turns back to look at him. He can barely make out the frown on Michael's face in the dim light filtering in from the lamps strung up between the caravans. "I don't want to keep you up," James whispers.

Michael hesitates for a moment. "I didn't come here to sleep by myself."

"I thought the heating went out?"

"It did." Michael's eyes are fixed on the ceiling.

James stretches out next to him again. Unsure about Michael's conflicting statements, he picks the safest route. "Did you miss me?" he teases.

Michael rolls away from him with a groan and mutters something that sounds like _McAvoy, you sap._

"I'll take that as a yes." He leans over Michael. "I missed you, too, darling."

James isn't prepared for Michael swiftly flipping him on his back and kissing him. It's fierce and demanding and there's a hand that sneaks around to press against his back so Michael can hold him close.

"I did miss you," Michael says, harsh and quick as if he has to tear the words out of his chest.

James doesn't know how to respond. Maybe he's not supposed to say anything in return, but he feels like he ought to. They don't usually put feelings into words. They've learned to read each other's gestures and touches, especially the ones they exchange in private. This is new territory and the ground is still shifting beneath him, leaving him on unsure footing. He reaches for what's most familiar to him.

James captures Michael's mouth, slow and steady.

///

2.

James' mobile buzzes on the bedside table, drawing his attention away from the Star Trek rerun he wasn't really watching.

 _Can we talk?_

He's tempted to text back no. He doesn't want to rehash the argument they had on set, and while changing out of costumes, and on the ride back to the hotel. He's got a headache coming on and he wants to be at home in his flat and not think about Charles and Erik and sticking to his marks and memorizing lines for at least a week.

Despite almost wanting to strangle Michael not three hours ago, James also wants to see him, and maybe wants more than just to see him, which is utterly ridiculous yet also undeniable.

He replies with a terse _Ok_.

Five minutes later, he hears the keycard in the door and forces himself to sit still instead of getting up off the bed to greet Michael.

"Hey." Michael lingers by the door for a few moments before moving fully into the room.

James mutes the TV.

"I—" Michael quickly sits down on the foot of the bed. "I'm sorry. I should have backed you up."

James nods. He draws up his knees because his toes almost touch Michael's thigh. "I thought we'd agreed on how we'd play that scene."

"We did, but—" Michael halts. It's obvious that he's reigning himself in.

"But you agree with Matt that it makes Charles and Erik look too close," James finishes for him. They'd been round and round this point with Matt and then yelled at each other in the car for good measure. "Whatever the fuck that means."

Michael toes off his trainers and pulls his feet up on the bed. "It means that..."

"Yes?" James wants to hear Michael spell it out, partly out of spite and partly because there's no need to talk about _friendship_ when it's just the two of them.

Michael dithers, and James has had enough. He slides across the bed and kneels right next to Michael. "They're _in love_ , for fuck's sake, of course they'll look like they're close! We talked about this just last night, about how Erik leans in over the chessboard and then Charles does, too, and I thought that we'd hold our ground there, and then you cave the _second_ Matt so much as hints at not being sure about how this will," James can't keep himself from making air quotes around his next words, "'come off'."

Michael's lips are pressed tightly together. He defiantly holds James' gaze for a moment before his resolve falters. His shoulders slump the tiniest bit and James knows he's won this round, but it's not a satisfying victory at all. He doesn't even want to fight with Michael. Yet he finds himself unable to let go of this point because they'd agreed on it and on its significance for the film as a whole.

"Maybe it hits a little too close to home, all right?" Michael's voice wavers.

That isn't one of the answers Michael's thrown back at him all day. Earlier it was all, _let's not over-act this_ , or _Erik's conflicted, I'm not sure he completely returns Charles' feelings in that moment_ , or some other total bullshit because James knows full well that if there's one thing they can completely agree on in their interpretations of their characters, it's that they're head over heels from the moment they meet.

Faced with this new answer, James hasn't got a clue about what Michael's trying to say, but it's loads more honest than what he's heard before. It loosens much of the anger that had coiled tightly in his chest. He rests a hand against Michael's knee. "I'm not sure what you mean." He keeps his voice low to make sure Michael knows he honestly doesn't understand.

He's not quite prepared for Michael's voice to sound as brittle as it does when he replies. "I'm having a difficult time turning this," he gestures between them, "off when we're filming. Which sort of makes me a shit actor—"

"I don't think you need turn everything in your life off once the camera's rolling," James cuts in softly. It's a very cowardly way of saying _me, too_.

"No?"

James slowly shakes his head. "Obviously, you've got to draw a line, but I'm not—I can't push all that away, either." _Especially not when I have you in my bed almost every night and then spend nearly the entire day with you._

Michael studies him and James looks back steadily until he can see everything fall back into place between them.

Michael ducks his head. "You could've just said."

James huffs out a laugh. "Like you did, you mean."

Michael flops back on the bed. "Shit, let's never do this again. It's too exhausting to fight with you."

"As opposed to other things?" James stretches out on top of Michael.

" _Other things_ are infinitely more pleasurable."

Michael curls a hand around James' nape to draw him in for a kiss. It's nice for about a minute, but then the ache in James' head transforms from dull tension to a sharp pain and he pulls away.

"Sorry. Headache." He rests his cheek against Michael's chest and closes his eyes. Even the lamp across the room is too bright all of a sudden.

"I'm exhausted, too." Michael's fingers weave into James' hair and exert just the right pressure to take the edge of the pain away.

For a while, James shuts out everything except for the rise and fall of Michael's chest, the steady beat of his heart and the continuous circles of his fingers. James floats on the sensations, utterly grateful to have this, to have _them_ , even moreso than usually.

"Will you stay?" he mumbles.

"I thought you'd fallen asleep already."

"Almost."

"Of course I'll stay." Michael draws another breath, but doesn't add anything.

James props his chin on his hand so he can look—well, squint—up at Michael. "What?"

"You don't always have to ask."

There's probably a great significance to what Michael's just said and he should acknowledge it in some form, but all he can muster is a mumbled _Okay_ before his head becomes too heavy to hold up.

James is asleep less than a minute later.

///

3.

It's been three days since James slipped the forms issuing him a clean bill of health into Michael's script. They almost fucked that night, except that James dozed off with two of Michael's fingers inside of him, and they decided maybe then wasn't the right time. James was mortified at first, but they had a good laugh about it. The next morning, James left for a twenty-four hour trip to Glasgow for his mum's birthday, and he's able to go back to his flat in London afterwards because he isn't needed on set until the next day.

He was excited when Michael shows up unannounced, but now they're standing naked next to James' bed, in his flat, the late November twilight settling around them, and James' heart is about to jump out of his chest. It's no use telling himself that he's got no reason to be this nervous when they've been sleeping together for this long. Yet, this is different; it's been years since James has allowed himself to get this close to someone, and they're in his home, which makes it both better and worse.

Michael's hand comes to rest on James' hip, lightly at first and with a tremble, then firmer. James can feel Michael's hesitation and wonders if he should ask what he wants to do, but they usually don't spell things out that clearly.

James reaches for Michael's hand and clasps it tight. Their fingers twist together. For a minute, that's all they do, and it feels good to have something to hold on to. James waits until he can feel want rise up in him again, like it did when he tugged Michael through his front door and barely gave him a chance to say hello. They couldn't get their clothes off fast enough, but then skidded to a halt once they reached the bedroom.

James looks down at their hands and thinks, _All right._ He cups Michael's cheek and kisses him softly but with purpose. "Come on," he whispers and tugs Michael onto the bed.

Michael is pliant under James' hands, following nudges and a mumbled _here, like this_ until he's kneeling with his back against the headboard and James climbs into his lap. Michael's hands find their way to his back and finally to his arse, squeezing and pulling him closer until there's no space left between them. The tight press of their bodies causes another wave of want to surge through James, strong enough to wash away the last remnants of hesitation and leaving only a sharp need behind.

The lube is within easy reach and James takes a hold of Michael's hand to coat three fingers.

"Really?" Michael asks.

James nods and pushes Michael's hand down. It's a bit much when his fingers find their way inside. James bites back a curse, but Michael notices his discomfort—of course he does, he knows James' body too well—and tries to pull away.

"Don't," James pleads and grasps Michael's wrist to keep him in place.

He knows it'll just be a moment, that he needs only a few breaths, almost, almost—there. James feels his body opening up and the fingers slide inside with ease, all the way to the knuckles. Someday James wants Michael's entire hand inside him. He hasn't shared this with Michael because he isn't sure if they're ready for that yet, but he's wanked to the idea often enough to know that it's something he definitely wants.

James picks up the lube again and slicks Michael's cock with a few measured slides from root to tip. A helpless groan tells him when to stop. James can feel himself inching toward that point as well, and as much as he loves it when Michael's fingers take him apart, he wants to come on his cock.

A brief touch of his hand to Michael's arm is enough to signal him to stop and move on. There's a shuffle of limbs during which James wraps both his arms around Michael's shoulders for more leverage and then James sinks down. Michael's fingers—high up on James' thighs, right on the curve of his arse—dig into his skin, and James thinks, _This is different, this is definitely different._

Michael's breath breaks in harsh pants against his neck when James twists his hips. "Shit, go slow," Michael mutters, lips sliding against skin.

James tries, and for a little while, he's fine with not moving much at all, but when he starts to tremble with the effort of keeping himself in check, he utters a quick "Sorry" and then curls one hand around the headboard to draw himself up.

He doesn't hold back after that, and neither does Michael, whose hand slaps back against the solid wood behind him for counter-balance. Michael's next stroke goes so deep that James' breath stutters for a moment. The press of Micheal's hand against the small of his back is a hot weight on his already overheated skin and he ignores the strain in his thighs, consumed with the need to push back harder.

A whine escapes Michael's mouth and his hips crash in broken snaps against James, who knows those signs but isn't prepared to feel the rush of Michael's orgasm inside of him, strange and unfamiliar and overwhelming enough to tip him over the edge as well.

Michael clings to James after, his face tucked against his collar bone, letting out choked almost-sob noises that shake James to the core. He desperately thinks _don't, don't_ because his eyes burn and he has to bite his fist to keep his own uneven breaths at bay. He twists a hand into Michael's hair and holds on as tight as he can.

Usually it doesn't take them long to start up a conversation after a shag. Sometimes they're quite earnest with one another in those moments, but more often than not it's playful banter that borders on silliness. Or they fall asleep without saying much.

This time around, it takes James a while to even begin to let go of Michael, and even longer still until they unwind their limbs to lie down. James tucks himself close, their knees bumping comfortably. Michael's hand drifts over James' body in long comforting arcs.

James finally moves away to turn on the lamp on the bedside table. He'll fall asleep if he doesn't, and it's far too early to settle in for the night.

Michael makes a disgruntled noise and pulls James close again. He kisses his lips and his cheeks and then moves lower, over his neck and chest and lower still, past the dip of a hip until he finally licks a broad path through the stripes of come on James' stomach.

James squirms because he's a bit ticklish and because the flicker of want that Michael's tongue calls forth rises up much too soon. When Michael tries to kiss him, he pushes his head away with a definite, "Eww, no. You know I hate it when you try to do that."

Michael laughs at him. "You have no problems rimming me, but you won't kiss me now? I'm sorry, but that's funny."

"Ha, ha."

Leaning closer, Michael whispers, "You can be glad that I've got respect for your sensitive arse or I'd lick you out right now."

The words slam into James' gut and his entire body shudders.

Michael nuzzles his cheek. "D'you want me to?"

James hasn't got the first clue what he wants because his brain has shut down, apparently. He barely registers when Michael leans down across his body, wiggles a hand between James' back and the mattress and uses his other hand to push one of James' legs out of the way. The first press of Michael's tongue against his hole jolts James into an overly bright awareness, tensing his muscles and leaving him struggling for his next breath. But there's no respite as Michael is determined and relentless, his tongue twisting and pushing past any resistance James' body tries to muster.

James hovers on the edge between a pleasurable ache of _too much too soon_ and a definite stopping point beyond which his body refuses to push, and he tries to hold on to the pleasure for as long as he can. Instinct has him twisting away when he reaches his limit. Michael draws back immediately and tries to steady him by resting a hand on his side, but even the slight touch of his palm is too much for James and he pushes Michael away.

James is shivering all over and he flings an arm over his eyes. He's allowed Michael to push at some boundaries before, but never like this. He feels open and raw and at a loss.

"Everything all right?" Michael is right next to him, close but not touching. "I didn't, I mean, did I—are you..."

James wants to say he's fine, but he ends up shaking his head. He can feel Michael fidgeting beside him and he blindly reaches for him. Michael's body is solid and warm against him.

"I'm sorry if that was too much," Michael murmurs. He leans far enough away from James to study his face.

"Don't be, it wasn't," James immediately reassures him. "Well, it was, but in a good way. Mostly. I don't know." He feels like an idiot but the right words won't come. "Sorry. You've shagged me into incoherency, I'm afraid."

That draws a smile from Michael, who doesn't seem entirely within reach of proper sentences, either. It's reassuring. James allows his fingertips to drift aimlessly over Michael's skin as they lie together in silence. Slowly the haze lifts from James' brain and he suddenly feels grateful that they're in his flat and not in the hotel near the studio. It's nice to have Michael in his bed, and it'll be nice to have him in his kitchen for dinner later (takeaway, definitely, and loads of it), and on his sofa for a film or maybe some TV. James smiles at the thought.

"Share," Michael demands with a nudge against his ankle.

"Nothing, just glad to be home," James replies.

///

4.

A few days before Christmas James returns to his hotel room after a long evening on set and finds Michael asleep in his bed, and a chocolate eclair topped with a candle sitting on the bedside table. Michael is curled up on his side, facing away from the lit lamp. He's got his favourite ratty blue hoodie on, the one that's frayed at the cuffs and that James has nicked a few times under the pretense of being cold.

For a moment James is tempted to slip into bed next to Michael without waking him, but he's too curious about the chocolate eclair. He wonders if the eclair's a remnant of yet another birthday celebration on set or if it has its own purpose. James hopes for the latter. The thought that Michael waited up for him is utterly endearing and he wonders what mad plan Michael has hatched that involves a chocolate eclair. James isn't surprised that Michael has fallen asleep; he's come back to the hotel hours later than planned and Michael must have been worn out from today's shoot. They've all exhausted themselves even more than usually in an effort to wrap before Christmas.

James sits down on the bed, his hip next to Michael's, and leans over him to whisper his name. When Michael doesn't respond, James calls out to him again, louder this time.

Michael lets out noises of protest and rolls onto his back. A frown crosses his face. He blinks up at James, befuddled and sleepy and gorgeous.

James smiles. "Hey."

Michael groans and rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. "Time is it?"

"Almost midnight. Finishing with the green screen took forever."

Now that James is back in his room and the residual adrenaline from the shoot is wearing off, he can feel himself growing tired. There's a strain in his neck that's radiating all the way down his spine. He's glad that Michael's here because it means he will stay the night. James can almost feel the warm weight of his body against his back already.

Michael struggles to sit up and flails a bit when his sleep-heavy limbs don't quite cooperate. James steadies him and takes the opportunity to pull him close. He burrows against Michael's neck for a moment, his eyes closing as he breathes in. He feels a hand in his hair, just a brief tug before it retreats. Lips press against his jaw, fleeting and light.

"What's with the chocolate eclair, then?" James asks.

"Oh, right," Michael replies and pulls away. He digs in the pocket of his jeans to produce a lighter. It takes him a few tries to get the little candle lit. He carefully picks up the plate and holds it out to James. "Happy Unbirthday to us."

"Happy what?"

"Unbirthday. We've had all these birthdays recently and I thought about how our birthdays aren't until April and how that's a bit unfair because who knows what's going on then, so I thought we should have a, you know, unbirthday party." Michael waves a hand. "Just go with it and blow out that candle before it's melted. And make a wish."

James is unsure if he follows the logic of what Michael just said, if there is any logic to it at all, but as the candle is burning down rapidly, James shelves his confusion. "You, too," he instructs.

They manage to sort of blow out the candle at the same time. James doesn't make a wish, exactly, but there's something he's been thinking about and that becomes a tangible want in his mind as the candle's light extinguishes.

Michael's got a serious look on his face that makes James want to ask about his wish, but it doesn't feel right to ask. "So, how do we split this?" he asks instead and nods at the eclair.

Michael's expression brightens and he reaches for the pastry, apparently intent on using his fingers. James has a split-second vision of cream filling everywhere on them and the duvet. He pulls the plate away in the nick of time. "I've got a spoon somewhere."

James rummages around on his desk and finally locates the spoon under a few discarded call sheets. He dashes into the bathroom to rinse it off and then neatly splits the eclair in two.

"Very nice job you're doing there," Michael teases.

"I prefer to have the filling in the eclair rather than all over me, thanks."

"Pity."

"Any other day, maybe, but I'm afraid I'd only fall asleep on you and we really don't need to have a repeat of that. Ever."

Michael stifles a laugh.

"Cheers. Really. I see how much respect you have for my feelings."

Michael's laughing in earnest now. "I have so much respect for your feelings, darling. So, so much."

"Piss off," James mumbles and starts eating his half so he doesn't smile back at Michael. It's a really good eclair, as it turns out. "How'd'you even have time to get this?" he asks between bites.

"Made Sarah buy it." Michael more or less devours his share in one bite, licking his fingers afterwards.

"I'm sure she was more than happy to do that for you."

"Don't remind me. Eager doesn't begin to capture it."

Sarah has a bit of a crush on Michael. James can't really blame her, but it makes Michael uncomfortable. They've even joked about letting Sarah walk in on them to make it clear that Michael is very much unavailable.

The seriousness returns to Michael's face after they finish eating. "Something's bothering you," James observes.

"It's nothing." Michael sets the empty plate on the bedside table. He doesn't fully turn back to face James.

James brings his hand up to Michael's nape and skims his fingertips over the soft skin there. Michael's head drops forward, much like James knew it would. It's strange how this knowledge has built without him even realising it; knowing where and how to touch Michael to draw out different responses. He'd think of it as an unfair advantage if Michael didn't know the same things about him.

"I suppose with us being almost done here, I've been thinking about the past few months," Michael begins. He speaks so softly that James has to strain to hear him. "About all that's changed. With us. And how I never expected any of it. Off to another film, nothing too new about that, but then. Then."

James' fingers still. "Then?" The word almost stays lodged in his throat.

Michael turns toward him and mutters _this_ right before he kisses James, deep and a little desperate.

James follows willingly when Michael uses his weight to ease them down onto the bed. He's tired, yes; but he also wants Michael close after a day during which they've barely even seen each other. It's ridiculous that James should miss Michael after perhaps twelve hours apart, but Michael has rarely been out of his sight these past few months. James has got used to having Michael near him, near enough for a shared laugh or a brush of hands. Sometimes he wonders if he's got too used to this. He knows they'll stay together after they wrap here, but there will be other jobs that will require spending much time far apart. It only makes him want to keep Michael closer now.

James lets his legs fall open so Michael can slide between them. The slow drag of Michael's body against his own is tantalizing and James starts pushing at the waistband of Michael's jeans to get them off and out the way.

"No," Michael mumbles against his lips. He grasps James' wrist and pins it above his head, then quickly reaches for his other hand and secures it as well. "Let me?"

James nods and nudges Michael's cheek for another kiss, which turns into a messy slide of lips and tongues broken up by hitched breaths. The friction between them builds until it's almost painful, the stretch of cloth too tight across James' cock and yet somehow not enough. He wonders if Michael's going to use his hands at all—and the mere thought of his fingers makes James shudder—but Michael seems keen on bringing them off through the tight press of their bodies alone.

It's agonizing to hang right there on the edge, aware that's something's missing, that he needs just a little more. "I can't, Michael, please," James whispers and tries to tug his hands free so he can fucking touch Michael or himself or both of them.

"No."

James lets out a whine and arches in frustration. There's something in this movement that makes Michael huff out a _oh, fuck_ and jerk against him. _Don't you dare_ , James thinks, but somehow Michael manages to hang on. It won't be for long, though, not when they're both this close.

If Michael wants to play dirty, that's fine with James. He hitches up his knees until they frame Michael's hips and crosses his ankles to dig his heels into the small of his back. It's enough pressure to slow the movement of Michael's hips to almost a standstill.

"Bastard," Michael mumbles, but he smiles against James' mouth.

"Let go of my hands."

"Never."

Yet Michael eases his hold and slides his palms upwards. Their fingers tangle together, solid and strong. This is one of those things that Michael has learned about James—that he loves their hands linked together when they fuck, and it sends James back to this morning when Michael had him on his knees. They were short on time, so everything was hard and fast and with the sole intent of getting off as quickly as possible. Yet Michael had spared the time to coax James into releasing the tight hold he had on the sheets and squeezing Michael's fingers instead.

James does the same thing now, and Michael smiles at him and squeezes back. James rolls his hips and watches as Michael's eyes slides shut, realising that this is it, this is what was missing before, this sight of Michael happy and caught up in him, in _them_ —

James sighs as his orgasm washes over him and he feels Michael's breath break against his neck as he comes as well. They kiss again, slow and without any need behind it, just a comfortable twining of tongues. Michael finally releases James' hands and they seek out some of their favourite places: the dip of Michael's spine and the curve of his arse.

Michael tugs aside the collar of James' jumper so he can get at the skin underneath. His tongue chases along the bone almost the entire way to James' shoulder, sneaking under ribbed wool when the collar won't give any more. Michael seems utterly lost in his pursuit, barely aware when James twists his fingers into Michael's hair. The tingle called forth by the swirls of Michael's tongue layers on top of the hazy contentment coursing through James. His eyes close and he doesn't open them when Michael places a final kiss to his skin and tucks his head under James' chin.

The not-quite-wish James made earlier floats to the forefront of his mind. "When're you coming back from Ireland after Christmas?"

"Haven't decided yet," Michael answers drowsily.

"Will you spend New Year's with me?"

Michael smiles against James' chest and mumbles _yes_.

///

5.

Michael thinks it's a crime against humanity to get up before the sun rises, especially on a dreary Wednesday in January when it probably won't get entirely light out the whole day. But needs must. He drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Just as he's about to turn on the shower, a strange sound from the door catches his attention. It sounds as if someone's trying to get into his room with the wrong keycard (which has happened before and some people will not believe they've got the wrong room until told).

With a sigh, Michael makes his way to the door. To his surprise, he doesn't find someone who's spectacularly drunk and trying to locate their room at half five in the morning, but James. Who doesn't look much better than if he was drunk off his arse and who is staring at the keycard in his hand. He also looks like he rolled out of bed about a minute ago, wearing tartan pyjama bottoms and a rumpled white T-shirt.

"Everything all right?" Michael asks.

"I'm not..." James sways a little. "I'm not feeling well."

Michael catches him around the waist and helps him into his room. As soon as they're behind closed doors, James slumps against Michael and burrows close. The keycard drops to the floor, unheeded by either of them. Worry spikes in Michael when he notices how warm James feels and that there is a slight wheeze to his breathing.

"Let's get you into bed," Michael says. Inwardly, he curses the freezing temperatures in the pool the past two days and wishes Matt wasn't so obsessed with re-shooting the scene in which Charles pulls Erik out of the water.

James seems content to let Michael manhandle him under the covers; he doesn't even open his eyes. Michael makes sure that James is tucked in, not even bothering to think about the sentimentality of the gesture. He kneels down next to the bed to get a good look at James. The first thing Michael notices is the strain carved into James' features. It makes him wonder if James has slept at all last night. James' flushed face suggests that his body is fighting off something strong enough to have knocked him off his feet.

"Oh, sweetheart," Michael murmurs.

The endearment slips out unbidden, and Michael wants to catch the words before they register with James because they don't do endearments, at least not in any sincere way, and this will only result in mocking.

Yet all he receives from James is an almost-smile interrupted by a cough. A very nasty sounding cough that makes James curl in on himself.

"How long have you been sick?" Michael asks, trying to remember if there were any signs he might have missed. It's difficult to believe James would go from fine to this sick overnight.

"I've felt off for a few days, but this only kicked in yesterday." He's trying to keep his eyes open and is failing. "Ugh, it's as if a thousand little elves are stabbing my eyeballs with tiny knives."

If James still has a sense of humour, it can't be that bad. "The tiny elves are the worst," Michael affirms. "Mean-spirited little buggers."

That earns him a real smile and he's glad for it because he feels a little useless otherwise. He pushes the damp hair off of James' face. Heat beats into his skin, its power evident even in this casual touch. Michael rests his hand against James' forehead, which only confirms his suspicion that James has a fever. "We should call for Ann."

"They'll need her on set."

"It's still two hours before filming starts. Besides, she's said before that we should ring her if we ever get sick. Her number's on the call sheet."

James tugs the covers tighter around him. "It's just a cold."

"Maybe, but you've definitely got a fever, and—"

"I hate to make a fuss."

God, James can be so stubborn. "It would make me feel better if someone took a look at you."

"Fine."

Michael ignores James' grumbling and goes to find Ann's number. He's pleased when she picks up after three rings with a cheerful _Hello_. At least didn't wake her.

 _"Hey, Ann, it's Michael Fassbender."_

 _  
_Hi! Is everything okay on set? I thought you weren't starting until seven?_   
_

"We're not at the studio yet. It's James, actually. I mean, I'm calling about James. I think he's sick. No, sorry, I know he's sick, but I'm worried—I was wondering if you could come by and check on him." Michael cringes at how utterly incoherent he sounds.

 _Of course, I can be there in a quarter of an hour. Can you tell me a bit more about what's wrong with him?_

"Well, he says it's only a cold, but he's got fever and a cough that sounds horrible. He's rather out of it, too, if you know what I mean." Michael catches himself pacing the length of his room, tries to stop, finds that he has too much nervous energy and picks up the pacing again.

 _All right, I'll bring some things over for him. I'm sure it's not that bad._

"Thanks. I appreciate it. Sorry for calling so early, but I was worried."

 _It's no problem, Michael. What's James' room number?_

"Um, he's, ah, in my room, actually. Five twenty-four."

 _Oh, all right. Well, see you soon._

Michael hangs up, grateful Ann ignored that he wasn't capable of stringing two words together. At least he's got the excuse of it being barely six in the morning. Perhaps he should take a shower to wake himself up so he can be a little more coherent when Ann arrives.

It seems as though James has dozed off, which is probably a good thing. Michael slips into the bathroom as quietly as he can. He hurries through his shower and he's just pulling a T-shirt over his head when there's knock on the door. He picks up his jeans from the floor and struggles into them, hopping to the door on one leg and glad he doesn't bash his head in on the way.

"Thanks for coming by," Michael says to Ann as he ushers her into the room. As always, she exudes an air of calm and confidence. Even though they haven't ever had a real conversation, he feels as if he got to know her well during all the times she's patched him up during the course of filming.

"I'm happy to help. Where's—Ahh, I see." Ann crosses over to the bed. She places one hand on James' shoulder and says, "James, it's Ann."

Michael hovers uncertainly behind her and watches as James wakes up, his initial confusion shifting into recognition. He looks even more miserable than earlier, and when Ann starts asking him questions about how he's feeling and what kinds of symptoms he has, bouts of coughing interrupt James' answers. It takes all of Michael's willpower not to start pacing again.

When Ann takes a few tablets and sachets out of her bag, he steps closer because he's sure that James can't keep track of instructions in his current state of mind.

"Okay, we'll start conservatively. You have two choices: the straight-up paracetamol or Lemsip?" Ann asks.

James gestures at the box in Ann's right hand. "Oh, Lemsip, nectar of the gods, yes."

"Great choice. I've also got some Strepsils for your cough, and I'll leave some ibuprofen just in case." She turns to Michael. "What's your shooting schedule like? It would be good if someone could keep an eye on James."

Michael didn't even think about the possibility that he might have to leave James alone for the day. The idea doesn't sit well with him at all, but he can hardly justify taking the day off. "Most of my scenes for today are with James, so those are off the table, I suppose, but I'm not sure what Matthew might want me to do instead."

Ann studies him carefully. "I can tell him that I asked you to stay with James. Someone definitely has to make sure that his fever doesn't get worse."

Michael isn't entirely sure why Ann is trying to give him an excuse for staying with James. They both know that there would be a few members of the crew, as well as Ann, who would be glad to check on James every few hours. He feels torn; of course he wants to stay with James, but he's also got a job to do. After all, James is, as far as the rest of the world is concerned, just a friend to him. A good friend, but nothing more. Michael can hardly ring Matt and say, _Look, my partner is sick and I need to take care of him._

Well. That's a word he's never used for James before. Unless you count that flight of fancy on New Year's Day when he, still buzzed from the night before and most definitely hungover, googled domestic partnership registration guidelines for the UK. As if that was ever a possibility. The price of fame blah blah blah. _Get a fucking grip_. He hates being maudlin about a life he is grateful for (most of the time, at least).

"Michael?" Ann interrupts, still waiting for an answer on what he wants to do.

"Don't go," James mumbles.

He sounds so pitiful that Michael wants to take his hand and reassure him that he'll stay, of course he'll stay, but he remains firmly rooted on the spot without any idea of what to do or say. Fuck, this is exactly why secret relationships with co-stars are a bad idea.

Ann looks back and forth between them. "How about this: I'll ring you once I get to the set, and you can make up your mind then. If you're ready to come in, I'll tell Matthew that you will be late because you wanted to make sure James would be fine for the rest of day. If you're not coming in, I'll say that I told you to stay with James."

"All right, that's, yeah. Thanks."

"You're welcome." Ann picks up her bag. "I'm off, then. You remember what to do with those?" She gestures toward the Lemsip and the other medication.

Michael nods.

"Good. And make sure James stays warm and takes those as directed."

"Michael's always warm," James observes. "It's like sleeping with a furnace. 's nice."

Michael can only stare at James, but Ann seems amused, and, perhaps more significantly, not surprised. "I didn't hear anything," she says and winks at Michael.

"Right," Michael manages.

"If it seems like James isn't getting better or if his fever appears to be worse, call me again."

"Okay."

Ann briefly rests her hand on Michael's arm. "He'll be fine. Don't worry." The warmth in her voice suggests that she understands why Michael's concerned and how much he cares about James' well-being.

"Thank you."

They both pretend Michael's voice doesn't wobble in the middle of that sentence.

"I take it I should tell Matthew you won't be coming in today?" Ann asks on her way to the door.

Once she puts it in such clear terms, Michael realises that he wouldn't have made any other choice. It's a relief. "I'll call him. There's no need for him to be angry with you."

Hopefully Matt will understand, but they've only got ten days for pick-ups. They might have to reschedule all of James' remaining scenes because it doesn't seem likely that he'll be back on set for a few days at least.

"Does Matthew know?" Ann asks hesitantly.

"Know...what?"

"About you and James."

Michael's throat feels dry. "No. No one knows."

Surprise shows on Ann's face for a moment before her features settle back into her professional caring-but-distant expression. "I understand. And I won't tell a soul."

"I didn't think you would." Michael trusts Ann to keep her word, but he also knows that a slip of the tongue is always possible.

"If I don't get a chance to call back here today, ring me tonight with an update on how he's doing, will you?"

Michael nods and opens the door for her. He lingers in the small hallway of his hotel room after she has left and gathers his thoughts. He can't blame James for being feverish and not entirely in control of his mouth, but at the same time, he also doesn't want to deal with the media should this become news. What a fucking nightmare that would be. It's not fair. Why should anyone care who he fucks? But it's not just a fuck, and that's perhaps the biggest issue. People in the business look past all kinds of supposed indiscretions, but once things get serious and real to the point where having a beautiful woman hanging off your arm at the next premiere won't make a difference, that's when everyone gets scared.

He shoves the thought aside and busies himself with making a cup of Lemsip for James. He boils enough water to make tea for himself. It's just PG Tips that Michael keeps for emergencies, but it tastes heavenly today, probably because he's been up for over an hour and hasn't had caffeine or food or a smoke yet. He should order room service and steal a quick five minutes out back for a fag, but James comes first.

Michael places the steaming cup of Lemsip on the bedside table and sits down on the edge of the bed. "I made the nectar of the gods for you."

James perks up a little, but Michael can tell he still finds it difficult to keep his eyes open. "Brilliant, thanks."

Michael props up some pillows behind James, but draws the line at keeping a hand underneath the cup to make sure James doesn't spill it. Judging by the noises James makes as he drinks, Lemsip is indeed some sort of heavenly beverage.

They finish their respective drinks in silence and Michael is pleased to note that James starts to look a little better. At least the haze has lifted from his eyes and he isn't coughing every other minute.

"Don't you have to leave?" James asks.

Apparently, he didn't overhear the conversation between Ann and Michael. "I'm not going in today," Michael replies.

"You have to." It's a low and urgent plea.

 _Don't you remember asking me to stay?_ Michael wants to ask. "I'd probably be useless since most of my scenes were supposed to be with you."

James twists the empty cup in his hands. "Right. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise for being sick." Michael holds back a comment advising James to take better care of himself because it would be hypocritical. They both push themselves too hard and thrive on it.

The quick retort Michael expects from James doesn't come; instead, he presses a hand against his forehead and groans.

Michael gently takes the cup out of James' hands and places both their cups onto the bedside table. He slides into bed next to James and wraps an arm around his shoulders. "Have the elves moved on to your head?"

"Yes." James leans heavily against Michael's side and sneaks one arm around his middle.

"Ann left some ibuprofen."

James holds out his hand.

Michael fidgets with the packet of tablets with one hand because he doesn't want to let go of James. He tips the pill into James' hand and fumbles for the half-full bottle of water that he dropped next to the bed last night. "Here."

James gulps down most of the water and slumps back against Michael. "You should probably keep your distance. My germs will be all over you."

Michael pulls James closer. "There's a good chance I already have what you've got, considering."

"Hmm, in that case..." James twists a little in Michael's arms and presses a kiss against his jaw. "Thanks for taking care of me."

"You're welcome," Michael mumbles, oddly moved by James' words.

"I apologise in advance for being horrifically boring today. I'll probably sleep most of the day."

"I don't mind having a bit of a lie-in. Just let me..." Michael gets up to undress. He tugs his T-shirt over his head and drops the jeans onto the floor, kicking them into a corner. He can feel James' eyes on him the entire time. When he gets back into bed, James rolls over onto his side. "Isn't it better for your congestion to keep your head elevated?"

"Don't care."

Michael is secretly pleased because this is how they usually fall asleep, and he could do with some normalcy after the tumultuous start to the day. He folds himself around James. There's nowhere else he'd rather be.

///

+1

The realisation hits James when he walks into the bedroom one evening in late June and sees Michael folding their laundry: he's been living with Michael for weeks. Whatever he meant to say to Michael vanishes from his mind, leaving the question of how he didn't notice before that his flat has become _their_ flat without either of them being aware of that change (perhaps Michael noticed, but James is fairly certain that he hasn't).

Michael looks up from folding one of James' T-shirts and sends him an easy smile. "Did you want something?"

James almost asks Michael if he's noticed as well, but then doesn't. Instead he sits down on the bed and pulls a pile of socks toward him. "Thought you might need help."

Michael leans over and presses a kiss to James' cheek. "Thanks. I've no idea where this mountain of laundry came from."

James laughs and continues to fold socks, grateful to have this utterly mundane moment like so many others they've shared in the past few weeks and months and hoping for many more to come.

end.


End file.
